


thirty nine million seconds go by

by bytheinco_nstantmoon



Series: the wrong shit at the right times [2]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Aged-Up Losers Club (IT), Author Is Sleep Deprived, Developing Relationship, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Gay, Everyone Needs A Hug, Good Parents Maggie & Wentworth Tozier, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I love them so much, Insecure Richie Tozier, Internalized Homophobia, Jewish Richie Tozier, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Richie Tozier Has Issues, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Secret Relationship, Sort Of, Superpowers, The Losers Club Are Not Heterosexual (IT), Trilingual Richie Tozier, Ukrainian Richie Tozier, Unreliable Narrator, canon isn't real anymore, everyone is an immigrant and im not sorry, except from the all seeing eyes of miss maggie and mr wents, gotta go back and do that, hey remember when i said this was a stranger things crossover, it's even worse than feared, no beta we die like men, oh i forgot to add the ships didn't i, that feels like a spoiler but like a really obvious one so uhhhhh im leaving it, the sequel.... it's here... it's queer..., they love!! their son!!, they're so good, ya boy is a genius, yeah anyway keep that in mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26159629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bytheinco_nstantmoon/pseuds/bytheinco_nstantmoon
Summary: Richie can't breathe. Time keeps going anyway.--"if by some fault i am remembered/let no grief in thus be rendered/for it has been a dark December/where fire hold the only embers"-"not for my sake"--All the breath in his lungs goes stagnant, stale, like he’s crumbling under the electric numbness that’s compressing him, disassembling him, ripping through his veins like sparks. He’sshattering.He can choose to be okay.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Maggie Tozier & Richie Tozier & Wentworth Tozier, Mike Hanlon/Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Richie Tozier & Original Character(s), The Losers Club & Richie Tozier
Series: the wrong shit at the right times [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670638
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	thirty nine million seconds go by

**Author's Note:**

> I KNOW IT TOOK LITERAL MONTHS IM SORRY please forgive me. this is no better of a hot mess than last go round, but uh... we have a real plot starting now? so hell yeah!
> 
> it's rated T for language lmao they say fuck a lot

one.

\--

The first time Richie kisses Eddie Kaspbrak, it’s in a rainstorm at the beginning of October, in the flickering orange light of the streetlamp. That night, he and Eddie curl up together in Stan’s bed wearing matching blue sweaters they stole out of his closet and whisper dumb shit to each other until they fall asleep with their fingers tangled hopelessly under the blankets. It’s cliche, and dumb, and it’s so fucking  _ perfect _ that Richie nearly forgets the window; nearly forgets what he saw.

He wishes he could forget, but it festers at the back of his mind, tickling a memory he doesn’t quite have. A face that’s too familiar for a stranger, and a stranger that’s too foreign to be a friend. The echo of his own name, the desperate weight of it, tastes like iron in his throat. Tastes like regret.

Richie has never been good with regret, so he swallows it as best he can and keeps holding Eddie’s hand under the blanket all through October.

Bur-  _ his hair is blond, streaked with grime, and his eyes are wide, filled with something like desperation- _

Richie swallows it better. Holds on tighter.

October is okay.

\--

two.

\--

October ticks into November, falling leaves tick into rushing windstorms, and Richie’s mind ticks into darker circles that pull him round and round; Richie's mind rips him down into a whirlpool. He grips the bathroom sink tightly and  _ breathes _ but it’s so hard, the air is so thick, and in the mirror; the mirror-

There’s a knock at the door. “Rich? You good?” He can barely even hear Bill’s voice over the ringing in his ears, the static in his chest, the shadows that are roiling behind his eyes. He grips the sink. Tighter. Grits his teeth. There’s a pain behind his ribs that he can’t deal with right now. He just needs to breathe, just needs to fucking breathe, just needs to pull his smile back up so that he can go and see Eddie, because he needs Eddie, needs the softness of his eyes when the room gets dark so that this stupid fucking static will stop pricking his skin from the inside out. He needs to breathe.

_ -the whole world shifts, the shadows intensifying, the floor rank and unsteady beneath his feet- _

But it’s  _ not. _ He’s alright. It’s November and he fucking hates November but he’s alright, he’s fucking  _ fine _ and November is here but the Dark isn’t, it’s not, and it’s over. It’s over. It’s all over, but then he remembers his own face filled with maggots, squirming through superficial skin, and he retches so hard his knees give out.

There’s a crack, a give, a crash that rolls over him, and for a moment his chest  _ clenches  _ so hard it  _ hurts _ and all the breath in his lungs goes stagnant, stale, like he’s crumbling under the electric numbness that’s compressing him, disassembling him, ripping through his veins like sparks. He’s  _ shattering, _ and then something in his chest snaps, resounds, and his whole body is weightless. For a moment he is shattered, a million pieces of stardust, a whole galaxy thrown from ashes into a dizzying, dazzling display. He is nothing but all at once, he’s everything, he’s something unearthly, he’s something unhuman, spun together by divinity. For a moment his seams burst and he is dissolved in the kind of darkness that  _ matters _ , and he can hold the goddamn  _ stars.  _ For a moment, he is the intensity that buzzes so rank in his mind, and oh, he gets why this is beautiful to-

And then he hits zero.

“Richie!”

He blinks dazedly up at the ceiling. His hands ache like they’ve been steamrolled. His mouth is so dry that it feels like it’s cracking open. His insides hurt like he’s being disassembled by some kind of bone collecting goblin, and the thought is so absurd that Richie chokes on a laugh. It tastes like iron.

Stanley’s voice echoes from the other side of the door, sharp with something like fear. “Richie, open the door.” He doesn’t, because he can’t move. Is this how it feels to be sewn back together? “Richie, I swear to god-”

Eddie’s voice-  _ Eddie! _ \- interrupts him. “Here, let me-” Richie hears the minuscule clatter of metal on metal. Hairpin in a lock. Picking a lock. Little pale fingers gripping his so tight, little soft voice asking questions he couldn’t answer, little pale face staring up from the floor-

The door swings open. Richie lets his head loll to the side with a grin, even though the movement sends pain through him that he’s never felt before,  _ fuck. _ Eddie is standing there on the threshold of the restroom with Stan and Bill behind him and they all look horrified, and Richie-

Well, Richie is still laying on the floor, and he still feels like there are little goblin hands pulling all his organs out. So maybe they’re right to look like someone killed their pet.

“‘Sup,” he greets. His voice is scratchy.

Eddie ignores his greeting completely as he crosses to his side. Richie smiles stupidly at him, but Eddie is unfazed by it. Rude, honestly. Richie likes his smile. He has very nice teeth. (Is that egotistical? Complimenting your own teeth? It shouldn’t be, right? He’s just self-aware. Teeth-aware. He would like to stop thinking about teeth now.)

Hands press gently against his cheeks, and Eddie is tilting his face, making Richie look at him. When did he stop? He thought he always was. “Jesus, Rich.” His eyebrows are drawn together tightly. “How the hell’d you do this?”

“What, fall? I do it all the time!” Eddie looks unimpressed. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t about the- oh.

Well. Wasn’t that something. Richie pushes himself up awkwardly onto his elbows, staring at the mess strewn across the floor. A piece of porcelain winks up at him mockingly. He glares at it.

Bill sounds half-strangled. “You broke the sink.”

“I broke the sink,” Richie agrees. His voice is sort of hollow. “Huh. Dad’s gonna be pissed.”

_ Mike would be so proud. _

\--

three.

\--

December floods in like a goddamn rainstorm, a mess of exams and holiday plans and putting snow in Ben’s backpack during lunch. And then there’s an actual rainstorm, and then it freezes, and Eddie isn’t allowed out of his house because it’s way too cold, what if he gets sick! So Bev and Bill sneak him out and he calls his mom from the Toziers, saying very brightly that he’ll be celebrating Christmas elsewhere, and Richie watches with immense pride as the little idiot he loves hangs right the fuck up on his mother’s screaming. All in all, December gets off on a brilliant note.

Brilliant like the sun streaming delicately through the window, trembling with winter fragility. Richie groans half under his breath as it strikes his face. The window is cracked a bit, chilled air slipping through, and he shivers, rolling out of bed. The floor creaks as he shuffles over and pulls the window shut. He pauses for a moment, eyes still heavy with sleep, and leans against it, feeling the cool glass against his forehead. It's morning. Damn.

"Richie?" Eddie's voice is caught in a murmur, muffled by sleep and the blankets he's tangled up in, but Richie can't help from smiling. He pushes away from the window and crawls back into bed, nestling himself against Eddie and looping an arm around the smaller boy's waist. "Too fuckin' cold," Ed grumbles, nuzzling closer. "Don't get up."

Richie laughs softly and presses a kiss to his cheek. "It's time to get out of bed, though," he says, keeping his voice quiet. He doesn't like disturbing this moment right after they wake up. It's soft. Sweet and full. It keeps his blood warm. Eddie pulls a face, but he's smiling. "Promised Maggie we'd help her with the cooking, remember?"

Eddie hums and reaches up, cupping Richie's face and pulling him in for a kiss. It's chaste, just a gentle morning thing, but Richie is still grinning when they part. Eddie's thumb rubs along his cheek. "Your face is pretty." Richie snorts a little, and Eddie's sleepy eyes narrow a little. Richie kisses his forehead as an apology. Eddie hates when he rejects compliments. "You're my favourite," Eddie continues, and his thumb comes down to circle Richie's jaw, then up, rubbing gently over his lips. "You're so pretty." Eddie's mouth curls in a small, early morning smile. "You're so pretty," he says again, his voice still caught in that half-asleep murmur and his touch still soft and gentle. Richie is caught up in the bliss of it, the sweet slide of Eddie's voice and the small hand gripping his bicep and the weight of Eddie's finger against his lips. Eddie rubs up over his cheek again and then lets out a happy little sigh, grabbing Richie's collar in hand and pulling him in for another kiss.

Richie laughs into it. He can feel the redness of his lips, and there's no doubt he'll get a disapproving look from Maggie, but he doesn't really care right now. "We've still got to get up, you know."

Eddie huffs. "Fine," he grumbles. Richie reaches down and scoops him up easily, bringing the sheets with him. Eddie squeals at the movement. Richie just laughs again as the door swings open and he carries Eddie down the hall, teasing him relentlessly all the while. He can hear the annoyed groans of his older brothers when he passed their room, but it’s none of his concern whether they’re annoyed with him or each other, so he ignores it completely and took the stairs two at a time, conveniently also ignoring Eddie's screams. He deposits his boyfriend- God, even after so long, it still made his heart jump- on the couch. Eddie makes some kind of weird hissing noise and curls up in the blanket that was still draped over him with a pout. Richie laughs, because  _ goddamn is he cute _ , and pats the pile of sleepy gremlin man as he flops down beside him. Eddie strikes out with his foot and scores a kick to Richie's thigh. "Fuck off," he grumbles. "I'm sleepy and you're a bastard."

"My son is a bastard?" Wentworth said mildly, strolling into the room from the front hall. "Why'd no one tell me?" Richie snorted. The front door closed with a soft click.

Eddie twisted around and pointed an accusing finger at the man. "You raised him. It's your fault he's a heathen."

Wentworth whistled in response, adjusting the paper bag in his arms. "A  _ heathen _ ," he repeated. "Damn." His face twitches, a familiar inside joke on his lips, but Richie interjects before he can say anything.

"I'm being bullied," he whines. "Please, God… save me… I am so unloved in this family…" Wentworth hums in agreement as he sets the bag down.

"Yep. Now come help me, painful burden of mine. You can stay here, Eddie, that looks like a nice nest." Eddie, who is indeed wrapped up in a nest of blankets, gives a thumbs up and snuggles down into the warmth, closing his eyes. Richie huffs, but hops up, leaning over to kiss Eddie's head. Wentworth gives him a warning look and jerks a thumb towards the stairs. People are waking up. Richie sighs mournfully before following him out to the car.

November is cold in Derry, and he shivers, his nose wrinkling up. "Did you buy everything this morning? Idiot." Wentworth scoffs, swinging his keys into his son's shoulder with a reprimanding force. Richie exclaims and jumps away like he's been stung. "Hey! Watch it!"

Wentworth rattles the keys threateningly. "Get to work or you'll get it again," he warns, but he's grinning as much as Richie is. "Maggie is going to kill me if I don't get this stuff inside." Richie snorts, reaching out, but Wentworth grabs his shoulder, stopping him.

There's a long moment of silence. Richie stares at him, brow half wrinkled. Wentworth is staring at him in that way he does sometimes, with something sad in his eyes, something that digs a little deeper than they usually do. "Look, I know this isn't your favorite holiday," he says, finally, and Richie laughs, but it sounds small and numb to even his own ears. "And I know it's hard. Having everyone here."

Richie glances up at the house. "It's not so bad," he mumbles. Wentworth raises an eyebrow. Richie shrugs, glancing down at the ground. "I mean, it kind of sucks. Not being able to… you know. Hang out with Eds."

Wentworth gets off a little chuckle of his own. "Hang out with Eds," he repeats, his tone affectionately mocking. "Just say you want to make out with your boyfriend like you mean, Jesus." Richie lets out a weird choking laugh that's half amused and half affronted- his dad is good at getting those out of him- but Wentworth grabs his shoulder again, and they both sober up. There's another moment of silence before Went breaks it, his voice serious. "I know it's uncomfortable for you." Richie kicks at the driveway, averting his eyes.

"It's okay," he mumbles. Because it is. It has to be okay. If it's not, then he's just a pathetic little kid hanging onto the past. He's just clinging to something that doesn't exist anymore. And Richie is an expert in recollection, he's a nostalgia master, he can get caught up in memories for hours, but in the end, it's all intangible and it's all gone. All he has is now. He can’t choose what happened before, but he can choose now. He can choose to be okay.

Wentworth hums. The sadness in his eyes is back as they search over Richie's face. "It's just a holiday, Rich. Hey,  _ hey-" _ he holds out a hand as he sees Richie bristle. He hears a shout of annoyance and glances up at the house. The lights in Lizzie's window are flickering on and off frantically. Wildly. Angry. "Calm down. I don't mean it like that."

Richie huffs, crossing his arms. "It's fine," he snaps, but Wentworth just raises an eyebrow again, and he's disbelieving but his eyes are sad and kind and his mouth is quirked into an understanding kind of smile, and Richie remembers all at once, as he always does, that this is the man he owes half his everything to. He remembers, as he always does, the moment Wentworth first smiled at him like that and the way his chest went warm. He remembers. He always remembers.

He perches on the open trunk of the car, fiddling his fingers together. He can feel his face slipping into the introspective sort of scowl that makes him look like- well. The one he gets when he thinks about it. His voice wavers when he finally forces his vocal chords to comply; the vowels thicken and he is almost grateful, because it is a grounding moment of identity in the midst of this holiday he despises. "I don't mind as much as I used to," he says. Wentworth's hand rubs through his hair and he leans into the touch. "I mean, it's just…" He looks up at the house. Lizzie's light has settled, flipped off, and he smiles a little bit. Of course she's gone right back to sleep. "They don't get it." Wentworth tilts his head, like a cue to continue. Richie takes in a shuddering breath. "I mean, it's like… a lot of the stuff, they get it, you know? The… remembering and the…" he waves a hand around. "Not belonging," he settles eventually. "But this…"

"It's not about the Dark," Wentworth finishes. Richie nods. "It's about you."

Richie breathes out and stares at the cloud as it drifts away. He aches for a cigarette, or maybe one of those kisses Eddie likes to put to the edge of his lips. "It's about me," he repeats in a whisper.

The moment is still and empty, and then Wentworth pulls his son's head to press on his hip in some lieu of a hug. "It's okay to hate it."

Richie shrugs, closing his eyes. "I don't hate it," he says, and he's a little surprised at how true it tastes. "I get the time off school, if nothing else. And Maggie's pie." Wentworth barks out a laugh.

"Maggie's pie," he repeats, and Richie knows without looking that he's shaking his head. "I make you sweet potatoes with enough marshmallows to make my dental degree nervous and you like  _ Maggie's pie _ ." It's Richie's turn to burst out laughing now, and Wentworth ruffles his hair one more time before stepping back. "Come on, kiddo, we gotta get all this in. Maggie hasn't had Nutella on her morning toast in a  _ week,  _ and I fear for our wellbeing if she goes much longer."

Richie tsks his tongue disapprovingly, because doesn't Went know it's bad to feed an addiction, but takes the two bags offered to him. "Could take the whole lot," he mutters, staring at the jam-packed trunk of the car.

Wentworth points upwards with a shake of the head. "God is watching."

Richie raises an eyebrow. He's better at looking scathing with it than Went is. (Or at least that's what Maggie says, and she's usually right.)

Wentworth points to the house. "Eddie is also watching," he adds, and Richie relents, trudging towards the door with his little measly load. He almost walks into his brother as he opens the door and Caleb flips him off without even looking over, trudging towards the kitchen, drowning in a sweater Richie is like 60% certain he also wore yesterday. He snorts and sticks his tongue out because his hands aren't free. 

It takes seven trips and about twenty minutes between the two of them because they're slow and Caleb keeps locking the door whenever they walk outside. The fucker himself is sitting at the kitchen table when Richie finally slams the last bag down, and he gives him a wide, sarcastic smile. "Having fun, Bitchie?" he asks, and Rich aimed a kick at his knee.

"Fuck you."

"It takes you like two seconds to unlock," Caleb points out. Richie huffs.

“Unappreciated.”

Wentworth snorts as he pulls open the cabinets, starting to put the groceries away. "He forgot." Richie made a wordless exclamation of betrayal as Caleb snorted, chucking a balled-up napkin at his younger brother.

"He forgot," he mocks, and Richie kicks him again. "Dumbass."

"Asshole."

"Toefucker."

Wentworth makes a weird wheezing noise, the Nutella in his hand thudding down onto the counter as he tries to catch his breath through strange gasping laughs. Richie just stares at Caleb. Caleb stares right back, his expression unchanging.

Richie shakes his head with a dramatic, disappointed sigh. The napkin strikes Caleb right between the eyes and he yelps, jerking back in his chair. "Toefucker," Richie repeats, trying not to laugh. "What does that even fucking mean?"

Caleb rights himself and sticks out his tongue, because he's a mature adult that cries over taxes and calls the house at midnight to tell Richie about a dog he saw at work. "It means you fuck toes, I don't know what else to tell you-"

"Woah, woah, woah," Maggie interrupts, entering the kitchen. She's wrapped in the comforter off her and Went's bed, peering out at all of them like a raccoon in its burrow. "Who's fucking toes? It's only 9 in the morning."

Richie points at his brother before he can manage to say something. "Caleb is being an asshole."

Maggie pulls the comforter further over her shoulders and gives a sympathetic hum, although her face looks decidedly unsympathetic. "Caleb is always being an asshole." Caleb looks delighted at this analysis of himself. Maggie shuffles across the room and leans her entire body weight on her husband, closing her eyes as her forehead settles against the back of his shoulder. Wentworth sighs but resigns to his fate, leaning against the counter and twisting open a jar of peanut butter. The cutlery drawer creaks when it opens and Wentworth hums in thanks as he takes the spoon up from the counter. "Thanks." Richie nods, although he's turned his full attention back to bickering with Caleb.

It's a routine. It’s comfortable. Maggie lets the comforter slide off her in the better interest of looping her arms around Wentworth's waist, murmuring something about breakfast. She's probably making fun of him for his peanut butter, so he shushes her and puts another spoonful in his mouth.

The mornings are always like this, all lazy and full of laughter; this is how mornings always are in the Tozier house. Because that's how they have to be. Because that’s the only way to get by. Because when you live half in the dark (half in Dark, if only in memory), then you can’t take for granted Nutella on toast or blanket nests or comfortable routines. The Toziers are a patchwork of pasts. Goddamn disaster, really. The Toziers don’t have forever to enjoy brilliant winter light at nine in the morning.

Eddie comes trudging in and settles down in the seat next to Richie, laughing along as Caleb launches into yet another tale about his insufferable city roommate. Wentworth kisses his wife on the head as she pulls away to make her stupid addiction toast. “You’re short.”

She mutters something under her breath in reply that makes him crow indignantly, and the boys laugh harder, watching his face fall into utter betrayal. Maggie just smiles sweetly.

_ -his hair is blond, streaked with grime, and his eyes are wide, filled with something like desperation- _

Richie squeezes Eddie’s hand under the table and swallows it as best he can. Eddie is here, he reminds himself, and the Dark is not. He can choose now. He can choose to be okay.

_ Maybe Mike would be proud _ , he thinks wryly, and then he chooses not to.

**Author's Note:**

> idk if anyone is gonna read this tbh but if you do then god bless you and i love you!!!!! come bother me on tumblr @theworriedman i am lonely and would love to talk!!
> 
> everyone who read this owns my entire heart ♡ comment n stuff please i write this stuff for myself but i post it for validation because god don't we all


End file.
